


By Heart

by todisturbtheuniverse



Series: Into the Storm and Rout [22]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dancing, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 06:03:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13828032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: Once, when their relationship was new, the Inquisitor and the Iron Bull danced in a tavern to whistles and cheers. It's not as easy at the Winter Palace.





	By Heart

**Author's Note:**

> An OC in this story made her first appearance in [Wall Yourself Away](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8370427); if you haven't read that, in short, she's a friend of this Inquisitor's from the Ostwick Circle.

The tavern is warm and loud and cheerful when Katrina opens the door and enters, but for a moment, she still stands awkwardly to one side, unsure if she should continue on. She is not well-known for her _grace_ , after all. Yes, she has recently become more proficient at hitting things with a big stick—and not landing herself on her ass in the same breath—but even that now seems much less intimidating than dancing. Especially with this audience. Even at this hour, late-afternoon, the tavern is full-up with plenty of people talking and eating and drinking.

Harding hasn't seen her yet. She can just get a drink, find a dark corner, and observe. Or maybe just turn around and leave, before—

"Inquisitor!"

Drat. Too late. Katrina pastes on the best smile she can muster as Harding elbows her way hastily through the crowd.

"You came!" she says, beaming. Katrina's will to make an excuse and back out falters and then evaporates. Harding invited her, after all, and Katrina _did_ accept. It's her own fault that she has a hard time saying the word _no_ to friendly people. If only people would stop being friendly to her.

"If you're to give me dance lessons—on our time off, no less—I think we must drop all titles and dignity," Katrina says. "Don't you agree?"

Harding doesn't argue, the way some scouts—the way some of Katrina's companions, even—would. She just smiles more widely. "Katrina, then. We actually have a dozen participants, thirteen counting you. It'll be fun!"

Katrina can't form the words to agree, exactly, so she just props up her smile and follows after Harding through the crowd. They part quickly enough, though they don't make as big a deal of her passing by as they once might have, which is very much to her relief.

"Clear the floor!" Harding calls with authority, and those still milling around in the open central area begin to disperse.

This allows Katrina to catch sight of Bull, who's looking over their way with interest, still in his usual chair by the window. Automatically, she rubs at her wrists. The faint indentation of rope has faded since the night before, but she can still feel it; something as simple as seeing him reignites the memory, puts her back there.

This is worse and worse. She's bad enough at grace to begin with; she'll be even worse with these kinds of thoughts clouding her head. She looks away before he can catch her eye, trying very hard to think of something else. Repotting the witherstalk in the garden, for example. It's been looking even more withered than it's supposed to.

"We're uneven," Harding says, glancing around at the gathered participants. Katrina doesn't know any of their names, only recognizes some faces vaguely from around Skyhold. "Well, you'll just have to dance with me. Do you know the Prancing Mabari?"

"The what?" Katrina asks, now panicking slightly, witherstalk or no.

"I'm familiar," a voice comments behind her.

For such a large person, Bull manages to sneak passably well. Katrina takes what she hopes is a subtle, calming breath and turns to face him. He's somehow pulled Krem along, too, who gives Katrina a friendly smile and shrugs.

"My lieutenant knows it pretty well, if you need a partner for demonstration," Bull tells Harding.

"I'm at your service," Krem says, and bows.

Katrina sees what this is about; there's a sort of hopeful look in Krem's eye that she understands, and the answering interest in Harding's face is enough to draw a thread between them.

"Perfect," Harding says happily, then cranes her neck to look up at Bull. "You can pair off with Katrina, then, and we'll get started."

Before Katrina can protest this—as if she could—Harding leads Krem away down the line of participants. She glances up at Bull, trying not to fidget. He's just smiling, amiably as ever, no particular mischief visible.

"I didn't know you danced," she says, because the silence is big and open and susceptible to all kinds of things. If her mouth is occupied, maybe her brain will stop.

He winks. "I've got many talents." Among which, of course, is that with only one eye he can still make a wink look like a wink, instead of just a blink.

She ducks her head, helplessly laughing. There's nothing for it; a blush is burning her cheeks, she's going to trip over every uneven floorboard she can find, and yet, the nerves twisting her stomach have faded, somewhat. He does that to her. If she could, she'd bottle it and take it daily with tea.

"All right, everyone, eyes up here!" Harding calls. "Krem will demonstrate the lead, I'll demonstrate the follow—just watch the first time. Maryden, will you start, please?"

Krem bows again, very crisply, and Harding curtsies, which looks a little strange in trousers. Then they begin, bouncing and whirling around one another. Katrina's relieved to see that there are only three basic patterns, repeated in sets; surely she can learn that much without embarrassing herself. She watches attentively, chewing on her lip, eyes darting between their feet and hands, trying to commit the motions to memory.

"Relax," Bull says. "All you have to do is follow."

"It seems a little more involved than that," she retorts.

"Trust me. You'll do fine."

She glances sidelong at him. He's watching her, the smile a little smaller now, though no less kind for it. She tries to make out the meaning of it, however fruitlessly.

"I'll try," she says. "Just don't...trip me, or anything."

His eye rolls, scoffing at the mere suggestion. They watch the demonstration dance conclude.

"I want the leads to try separately first," Harding tells them all, "just to see you've got the motions down. Same for the follows. We'll come along and help you out if you get lost."

Bull catches her hand and squeezes it, as if in reassurance, before they part to different sides of the room. She regrets letting that contact go.

She knows that what they're doing is just...fun, really. Some method of stress relief between friends. She is not unfamiliar with the concept. She _is_ unfamiliar, though, with someone standing so firm at her side, sensing her unease, trying to put her right. It means something to her. She doesn't like to admit it, not even in the sanctuary of her own mind.

The music starts, slower this time so that they can try out the steps. Harding counts, loudly, above it, so that they can all fall in rhythm. Katrina becomes too busy with her feet and the placement of her hands to think about her wayward feelings and all the ill they're likely to eventually bring her. There is only the beat and her attempt to stumble her way toward it, following Harding's demonstration in front of those following.

She's only just started to feel like she has one of the patterns memorized when Harding says, "One more time, a little faster!"

She stumbles a little, nearly knocking into the person next to her—a cook, she thinks, recognizing her from the kitchens.

"Sorry," she says, righting herself. "I'm too clumsy for this."

The woman laughs, holding up her skirts; her feet, too, are a little behind the beat, stumbling now and then. "You're doing fine, Inquisitor!"

She steps her way through the rest of the set, still fumbling, cheeks burning. The onlookers applaud enthusiastically when Maryden stops playing.

"With your partners, now!" Harding calls. "You'll get the hang of it!"

They start with a few feet between them, Bull across from her. Maybe he sees the wide-eyed panic in her face—it can hardly be missed—because he says again, "Just follow my lead."

Maryden starts playing. Katrina's eyes automatically drop to her feet to make sure she's stepping in the right place. Bull catches hold of her hand, right when he should, and pulls her into the next steps.

"Look at me," he says, "or you're going to keep tripping."

It takes quite an effort; she's afraid that if she looks away from her feet for even a moment, she _will_ stumble, she _will_ embarrass herself more than she already has, but. She lifts her eyes from the floor and looks up at him, and there's something about his gaze here that steadies her, a little. His hands nudge her with just enough pressure, in the correct direction, for her feet to remember the pattern—still a little clumsy, but at least mostly in time with the beat.

He spins her away from him, as the dance dictates, and they circle around one another, not touching. She fights the impulse to look down at her feet again. It _does_ seem to be a little easier to move when she's not looking at them.

The music enters the second part of the song. They come back together for a livelier series of steps, and when she seems at risk of falling, he steadies her, moves her where she's supposed to go, sometimes picks her up and places her, and her feet catch up and remember. By the time the music changes to the third movement, she's grinning, almost having fun, really, and the tavern is clapping along with the steps.

Bull steps toward her and away, their hands still joined, and she mirrors him; they circle again, one of her hands safely tucked in his, and she seems at no risk of tripping and falling now. The impulse to look at her feet has gone. He spins her around and out and back, and she begins to laugh.

Maryden ends the song, and the applause in the tavern seems like it might well bring down the rafters. "Again!" one of the onlookers shouts; the call gets taken up by a few others.

"They could certainly use the practice," Harding says, though she's smiling, and her cheeks are pink with the exercise. "All right, again, Maryden."

Bull raises his eyebrow at Katrina. "You up for it?"

It reminds her of that moment in her bedroom when he approached her, the challenge of it, the thrill, the frisson of fear. She hardly knew what she was doing there, either, but she muddled her way through. She learned the steps.

"Yes," she says, still breathless, and they step into the dance as the music begins again.

* * *

 "Please tell me you've heard anything I've said to you in the last several minutes."

Katrina blinks and looks up, and what comes out of her mouth is too sharp by far, too reactive. "I just thought I'd let you go on, since you seemed content to list every worry you have about this dratted thing."

Josephine frowns at her. "I'm sorry that you think of this only in terms of the inconvenience to you, but it is _important_." Her voice, too, is sharper than usual; they are all feeling the strain. "There may very well be just as much danger at the Winter Palace as there was at Adamant."

"Danger, I think I've become accustomed to by now. But dancing?" Katrina grimaces. "I'm not as practiced at that."

Josephine straightens up from her desk, the frown less severe now. "You don't know how to dance? I assumed you would have had lessons when you were younger."

"Nearly twenty years ago now, given how early I went to the Circle. I would wager they're out of date." Katrina does not think that the Prancing Mabari really applies, here. Surely Orlesians are just as disdainful of a Ferelden's dog as they are of Fereldans themselves.

"Well, you'll just need lessons, then." Josephine dismisses it easily, shuffling a few more papers around her desk. "Leliana and I can instruct you."

"Is it really necessary?" Katrina asks, cursing that she'd even brought it up to begin with. "I mean, what call will there be for me to dance, if I'm supposedly investigating this threat to the Empress?"

"You can learn plenty while you're dancing with a partner. And we cannot act as if we're only there to investigate. If we want the Empress's full support, you will have to play The Game adequately well." It doesn't have quite the air of a reprimand, but it comes close enough to sting.

Katrina sighs, lifting a hand to rub at her temples. "You know I will do my best," she mutters.

"I know," Josephine says, her voice softening. "I'm sorry. I should not have snapped. I know that you're uneasy in these kinds of situations."

"Fortunately, I have a very competent ambassador to advise me," Katrina says, trying to be gracious. She doesn't like to be at odds with Josephine; they've had little occasion for it before. "I will try not to embarrass you."

"You could never embarrass _me_ ," Josephine replies, smiling now. "I have more frightening friends than you."

"Don't issue such a challenge, I beg you. It's too tempting."

They smile at one another, all good feeling restored, and Josephine finally sits back down in her chair and pours them both another cup of tea. For a moment, they just sit quietly, sipping. Katrina tries to convince herself that she'll find a way to be absent when the dancing begins. She does not do a very good job of it.

"You will need to decide who to bring with you," Josephine says after a moment.

"I'm afraid you won't like the first person I nominate very much." But she will not go anywhere without him, not now, no matter whose feathers it ruffles.

"I think I understand that Bull is a foregone conclusion." She does not seem frustrated by it or worried about it; that's a relief. "And I wouldn't argue, anyway; I will be interested in his observations from the evening."

Katrina dips her head. "Thank you. Perhaps Vivienne can help to balance whatever nobles are upset by his presence. And I think Varric would do well charming his many adoring fans there."

"I'm surprised you wouldn't like to bring Cassandra."

"Oh, I would like to, but I doubt it would benefit either of us. She is nearly more unpleasant under such ceremony than I am. We'll have to muddle along without her, somehow."

Josephine casts her an impressed look. "I think you've developed a taste for all this, after all."

"Not a taste. An adaptation. Mere necessity."

"Well, whatever it is, I have no doubt you will do just fine at The Winter Palace." Josephine's voice drops. "You have danced _some_ , haven't you? Just a little?"

"I doubt you would consider that class that Harding held as appropriate for the Orlesian court."

Josephine brightens a little. "Of course! I can't believe I'd forgotten. That was months ago." Her smile turns a little sly. "You danced with Bull, didn't you?"

"More like he danced, and by some miracle he pulled me along with, making me acceptable." She fiddles with her cup, smiling despite herself at the memory. "That _was_ long ago."

"I should warn you," Josephine says, though she looks like she does not want to do it at all, "that it would not look...well...for you or the Inquisition, if…"

Katrina's heart plummets. Not because this is a surprise, not at all; only because it's inevitable, and frustrating, and there's nothing she can do about it. "Don't worry yourself. I know full well that dancing with him in view of the Orlesian court could only be cause for scandal. Besides, I will be too busy rustling the draperies in search of assassins to dance with anyone who isn't a suspect."

"Still. I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to hide, but..."

"We need the allies; I understand." And she does, much as she's like to just say hang the empress and the court and all of the things that she is not equipped to deal with. "I'm already a Marcher and a mage besides. The odds are stacked high enough against us at the outset."

"Maybe you are a Marcher and a mage, but you have done a great many things in the past year. They will see that, eventually."

She has tried to accept that more readily of late, but still, she struggles. It seems to her a series of accidents with someone more competent always there to catch her. But she bows her head in acknowledgment, at least. She does not want to think about this further. She does not want to think about _hiding_.

"When shall the lessons begin, then?" she asks.

"This evening, if you're free."

"I hope you don't mind if I step all over your toes."

"I'll wear thick boots," Josephine says, smiling, "just in case."

* * *

It's not _so_ bad, Katrina's willing to admit, but she _is_ sore, and tired, and it's barely eight in the evening. What she would like best is a long soak in a hot bath—a long _sulk_ , more like, to get over Leliana's merciless teasing about her form, jest or no—but she knows that there are forms waiting for her review upstairs, and she's put them off long enough.

"Finally," a voice calls from the top of the stairs, "I thought you'd never be done."

It's not Bull's voice, but it's nearly as good as; just the sound of it allows a smile, however tired, to unfold on Katrina's face.

"Are you waiting on me for something?" she calls back, climbing the stairs.

Piper comes into view. "Just for dinner, you wretched host. I've had to drink half the bottle of wine by myself to overcome my feelings of neglect from your tardiness."

Katrina remembers, as Piper speaks, that they had planned to eat together tonight. _Ugh_. She did not used to be so forgetful. She did not used to have so much to keep track of, either.

"I'm so sorry," she says, and means it. "The dance lesson ran over."

At the top of the stairs, Piper reaches for her; she presses a kiss to her old friend's cheek and hugs her tight in return. She's still not quite over the relief she feels at knowing that Piper is safe, and here, and well. For a moment, it washes all else away.

"Well, hopefully the food's still warm," Piper says, pulling her over to the table. "The cook said it's your favorite."

"I could use it." Katrina pulls the covering off one of the dishes, takes in the smell, and gives a pleased sigh. "How are you and Mira settling in?"

Piper pours out the rest of the wine. She really _did_ drink half the bottle, which makes Katrina feel impossibly fond of her.

"Mira's of a mind to join the Chargers," Piper says, a little dryly. "She likes them all so much."

"And they like her," Katrina says, smiling; she's heard Bull tell of Mira's skill with her maul, which is apparently quite admirable. "I'm sure Bull would take her on."

"I don't know about her going off to all these dangerous missions they seem so partial to, but." Piper sighs. "I know I can't exactly stop her. It's what she likes best, hitting things."

"I'm sure she likes you a little more."

"And I like her, so I won't stand in her way."

"And you?" Katrina asks, sitting down to her food. "How do you like it here?"

"Stop fussing," Piper says, smiling. "You know perfectly well that I find something to like wherever I go. And you're here, so Skyhold makes it very easy."

Katrina pauses in cutting open a roasted potato. Her sinuses are burning, threatening, but she forces out the words with hardly a wobble. "I'm so glad you're here. I don't think I can really say how much."

Piper's about to stuff a roasted potato near whole in her own mouth, but she pauses. "What's wrong?"

It seems impossible, after so many years apart and so much endured separately, that Piper should still know her so well. But she does, somehow. Katrina sets her fork down; she isn't particularly hungry, roasted potatoes or not.

"Just this business at the Winter Palace," she says, reaching for her wine instead. They're going to need another bottle. "You know I'm not very...social."

Piper snorts. "Maybe an understatement."

"Exactly. But I'm going to be expected to talk and negotiate and _dance_...and carry on an investigation all at once."

Piper watches her, her brown eyes keen. "But it's not that. You've juggled nobles and nonsense since you fell out of that rift. It's something else."

Katrina looks away, sipping. "You still see right through me. It's infuriating."

"An exaggeration, since I can't actually read your mind, or I'd have done it by now."

Piper waits, patiently, for her to collect her thoughts. Katrina drains the rest of her glass while she's at it, and Piper unearths a new bottle from under the table—like magic.

"I think sometimes I get this...delusion...that I'm free, because of all this." She holds up her left hand; the glimmer of the anchor shines through. "And I am, I guess, more than I ever was in the Circle. More than I ever knew I wanted. But now that I have the taste for it, I...I find that there are things I still can't do, and it makes me so angry. Angrier than I ever was at Ostwick. It's stupid," she says, seeing Piper about to speak and rushing forward. "We're going to this ridiculous ball that may very well end in murder, and I'm angry because, at the end of the night, I still can't dare dance with anyone I actually like, lest the court think less of me than they already do, and we can't afford them to think less of me."

"Ah." Piper, of course, understands. Her brown eyes, usually so keen, are soft and sympathetic instead. This was what she fought against, after all, so hard it almost killed her, while she was trapped in the Circle. Katrina never understood it, then. She does now. The blinding, burning rage of it threatens to swallow her whole. "This is about Bull."

"Of course it is," Katrina mutters. "I know the opinions people have about Qunari, I know they won't change in a single night, but…"

"But you're in love, and you don't like to see him maligned." Piper laughs a little. "You, in love. It's still sort of shocking to me. You never were very romantic."

"It takes me back there," Katrina says. "It takes me back to Ostwick, to being so _afraid_ , and I...sometimes I don't realize how much I'm afraid to be forced back to that place, until…"

Piper gets up, comes around the table, and leans down to wrap her arms around Katrina. "I know. You know that I know."

They stay that way for a moment, Katrina's face pressed to Piper's shoulder, a silent comfort passing between them.

"But you know," Piper says, drawing back, "even if you _did_ dance with him, they wouldn't ship you off to the ass end of nowhere. They wouldn't separate you. They just might spread nasty rumors, or refuse to give you soldiers, or something." She pats Katrina's cheek, the ghost of a smile on her lips. "It may feel like Ostwick, but you're safe from that much, at least. We both are. And that's something."

Katrina reaches up to grasp Piper's hand. "You're right, as always."

Piper grins. "Now, no more moping, eat your supper, and I want to guess at whether some of these rumors I've heard are actually true or not."

Katrina splutters, Piper laughs, and the mood lightens. She always did have that skill, Katrina thinks, very fondly, as Piper takes her seat again. How Katrina has missed her.

* * *

Her uniform itches like the Fade, practically, and the voices of the many nobles around her do, too.

_She brought that great brute with her; can you believe that Madame de Fer travels in such company—_

_—heard a rumor that he and the Inquisitor might be **involved** —_

_That Tethras fellow must be getting good fodder for a new series—_

She must be imagining the eyes that follow her, the volume of the comments. They can't mean for her to _hear_ , these occasional, indiscreet people who are too deep in their wine or just too brazen to keep their voices properly lowered. Or do they? _Do_ they mean it? Do they think to change her behavior with mere gossip?

"You got anything that needs killing?" Bull asks. "Because the nobles keep messing with me, and they think I don't know they're doing it."

For an instant, her anger burns white-hot like the lightning not far from her reach. For an instant, she actually comes perilously close to losing all control, the way she has never been at risk of doing before. It's almost sweet.

"This keeps up, I'm gonna wear somebody's skull as _my_ fancy little mask," Bull continues.

The immediacy of her anger recedes. She manages a laugh, just barely, and reels herself in. She doesn't like what just nearly happened, not at all. She's shaking a little bit with the force of it.

She can't fry the twenty people within reach around her. But she can disregard them. Cast them aside as if they're beneath her. She can ignore them. And what can they do about it?

"Any interest in a dance?" she asks.

Bull laughs.

All right, not the reaction she was hoping for.

"Oh, shit, the nobles would love that," he says with ill-disguised delight. "Can you imagine Josephine's face, trying to explain that we were…"

It's as if someone's thrown cold water over her head. The anger dissipates entirely, leaving her without its purposeful, insistent warmth. She looks blindly out across the crowds, searching for a way to extract herself from the conversation she has only herself to blame for.

"Right, yeah," she agrees. "There would be fits." Her voice sounds hollow, even to her.

"Wait, were you serious?"

She's about to tell him no. Of course not, just a joke. To get them through enduring the nobles, you see, imagining scandalizing the whole lot of them. But he rushes on, not allowing her to answer.

"Because if so, then yeah, absolutely. I mean, once we stop the assassins, and all that."

She glances up at him. If she's not mistaken, she thinks she just saw him _stumble_ , a little. A misstep. A mis _read_ , really, of her, of what she meant. It's not often that happens; she has a hard time remembering the last time. And she thinks it means that he feels just as uncomfortable as she does, here, that he feels just as wrong-footed. There's a sense of relief that comes with that realization. A feeling of companionship.

"I was serious," she says. "But, of course. You know how the to-do list goes. Assassins first, dancing second."

He laughs again. It sounds better this time, less strained. Warmer. Not like her anger, but something better. "Better get to it, then."

Time to explore the guest wing and move this party forward. She is not exactly a paragon of stealth, but she will just have to manage. She begins to step away, toward the garden. Good humor aside, her anger begins to return as soon as she notices that several people nearby have been watching them, observing their conversation, maybe even eavesdropping. Some of them are even eying her warily.

"Asaaranda."

She pauses at the sound of the name—the old name, the one he called her before _kadan_. She hasn't heard it for a while, but when she looks back, he tips his head, she follows his gaze, and she understands why: there are sparks igniting around her fingertips, little webs of lightning forming. She makes a fist, and they disperse.

"Take a breath," he says, his eye fixed on hers. "And find me when you need me."

"Right," she says, does as he says, and moves off again toward the garden, holding her magic tight so that it won't break free.

* * *

The night is late, in Katrina's opinion, when the sneaking and the fighting and the speeches are done; the Orlesians, however, seem to think that the party is just beginning.

"Come with me for a moment," Josephine says, materializing out of the crowd to take her elbow.

Josephine leads her away from the crowd, toward the royal wing. "What, are there more assassins hiding behind the drapery?" Katrina asks, a little too tired to be anything but straightforward.

Josephine casts an amused look at her. "No, no assassins. Maker, what happened to your hair?"

"I haven't just been eating finger sandwiches," Katrina snaps, her anger—so close to the surface tonight—sparking up again. "There were Venatori, for Andraste's sake—"

"You're a mage," Josephine interrupts, still smiling. "Shouldn't you be well back from the fighting?"

"There were bushes," Katrina mutters. "It's not my fault."

Josephine laughs. "Well, I'm sure I can do something to fix it."

" _Fix_ it? This nest? I thought we were leaving."

"I doubt very much we'll be allowed to do that, until morning, at latest, and the party is likely to continue until then."

Katrina lets out a low groan.

"Don't despair too soon," Josephine says, amused.

"On the contrary, I think it may be too _late_ to despair."

"You're in a fine humor."

"It's been a fine night," Katrina retorts.

Josephine pulls her through a gilded door into a gilded room. "I will accept your profuse apologies when you see what I have to show you."

There's a rack in this ridiculously-adorned room, one that holds a number of garment bags. Josephine flips through them, reading labels, and finally pulls one open. Katrina stares at the contents for a long moment, uncomprehending.

"It's for you," Josephine says, more patiently than Katrina deserves, probably.

"Oh," she says, so soft that she hardly hears herself. "I can't wear that. It's too...it's too…"

"I will not hear any arguments, my dear."

Katrina turns; Vivienne has just come through the door, shutting it behind her. She's already removed her uniform and looks as if she was never in any fighting at all. Of course, she avoided falling into any bushes, and that would help. Her gown sweeps the floor as she walks, ice-white and glimmering in the light.

"My seamstress made it at my request," Vivienne says. "And she would be heartbroken to hear that you didn't get to wear it."

Katrina looks back at the dress. "I'm afraid I'll...trip, or step on the hem, or ruin it somehow."

"Beautiful things are made to be ruined," Vivienne says, with a note of finality. "Now, wash up a little, Josephine will fix your hair, and I will help with the buttons."

Katrina looks between them, each unyielding in her own way, and concedes defeat. She _is_ desperate to get out of this uniform. The dress _is_ the finest thing she's ever seen.

And she does hope she gets a view of Bull's face when he first glimpses her wearing it.

It's so much skirt, and far off the shoulders. She doesn't know how it holds up, except that it does, somehow. It almost passes for the Orlesian style so popular out in the ballroom, except that it's not quite the same, still. Maybe it's the fabric—royale sea silk, whisper-soft against her skin—or the glittering fragments of dawnstone, like pink stars strewn across snow. She looks as unlike herself as is possible to look, though still with that bemused look on her face; she tries to rearrange the expression she sees in the mirror.

"There," Josephine says, her fingers arranging a last strand of hair beneath the vine-like silver piece fixed above an elaborate bun. There are pearls, too, strewn throughout.

"Thank you," Katrina says, trying again to be gracious. She thinks it used to come more easily to her, for acts less deserving.

There is no use trying to hide in a dress like this. It _sparkles_. Even her slippers sparkle, when they peek out from beneath the hem. She can't believe how much she loves it.

"You deserve it," Josephine says gently.

* * *

Katrina tries to keep her back straight as she makes her re-entrance, alone. It's still a struggle for her; slouching comes more naturally. Too-tall Katrina, always with her head down, keeping to the nooks and crannies of the library, trying to go unnoticed.

Now the room can't help but notice her. A hush falls; eyes widen behind the masks; but their appreciative smiles are meaningless to her. She scans the crowd for a set of horns, head and shoulders above the rest, and finds him: right in the middle of a mouthful of cheese dip. When her eyes meet his, she sees him freeze, so briefly that no one else would notice.

But she does, and it warms her soul.

The empress sweeps in, all compliments, and leads her away to dance. The lessons did the trick; she can't be called elegant, but she can be called adequate, and unfortunately, that means that every noble in the room is vying to dance with her, to have her ear for a song. By the time six of them have passed by, she's lost sight of Bull entirely.

She barely manages to avoid another hand, claiming to need a glass of wine—water would be more welcome, at this point, but unfashionable—and tries to merge into the fringes of the crowd. It's harder, with a dress that sparkles. She gets stopped every few feet by, at minimum, a word of gratitude. She tries to be patient, but her eyes are wandering, searching. Where has he gotten to?

"Looking for someone?"

For such a big person—well, the noise and the press of the crowd _does_ hide footsteps well enough. She turns to face him, already smiling.

He looks her up and down, a sly smile on his face. He's still in uniform—it looks as strange on him as this dress does on her—but the eyepatch has been changed. It glitters with tiny, polished dawnstones. No doubt Vivienne had it made.

"The rest of the to-do list has been checked off," she says casually.

Wordlessly, he offers her his arm. She thinks she hears a nearby noble gasp, but just as quickly, their neighbors shush them.

Josephine will forgive her. She saved the empress, after all. For that, she can dance with whomever she likes.

She takes his arm; he leads her back toward the floor. People hurry out of their way, not trying to get a word with her, now. She holds her chin high; she keeps her back straight. The air of sheer smugness radiating from Bull helps, as if, without a single word, he's declaring, _Look at her. But looking is all you get to do, now. She's with me._

As they take the stairs, descending toward the crowd of dancers, the song ends. New chords strike up, and they seem jarring, out of place, in this elegant, gilded room. Too lively by far. Katrina begins to grin.

"How much did you pay to bribe the band?" she asks, but fondly.

"I just told them it was your favorite," he says, still smug. "They'd play anything for you, after tonight."

The stuffier, older nobles are vacating the floor, but the younger—or maybe just the more inebriated—are crowding in. Up above, in the gallery, Katrina spots Josephine, shaking her head. Exasperated, amused, but not angry. No doubt she's never seen the like. It's been the strangest night.

Bull cocks an eyebrow down at her. "Ready?"

She takes her position across from him. "Absolutely."

The Prancing Mabari begins in earnest, and she doesn't worry about falling. She knows this dance by heart. Not the steps, not perfectly, but the spirit of it. And if she trips, she knows that Bull will catch her.


End file.
